Yes. Failure? Yes. Heartache? Yes.
His evil tendencies in regard to women, such as the stranger who had sat
beside him had testified to? Yes. How strange! And yet he was curious.
It interested him a little to speculate as to whether this could really
be done. Could he be healed of failure? Could this pain of longing be
made to cease? Did he want it to cease? No; certainly not! He wanted
Suzanne. Myrtle's idea, he knew, was that somehow this treatment would
reunite him and Angela and make him forget Suzanne, but he knew that
could not be. He was going, but he was going because he was unhappy and
idle and aimless. He was going because he really did not know what else
to do.

The apartment of Mrs. Johns--Mrs. Althea Johns--was in an apartment
house of conventional design, of which there were in New York hundreds
upon hundreds at the time. There was a spacious areaway between two
wings of cream-colored pressed brick leading back to an entrance way
which was protected by a handsome wrought-iron door on either side of
which was placed an electric lamp support of handsome design, holding
lovely cream-colored globes, shedding a soft lustre. Inside was the
usual lobby, elevator, uniformed negro elevator man, indifferent and
impertinent, and the telephone switchboard. The building was seven
storeys high. Eugene went one snowy, blustery January night. The great
wet flakes were spinning in huge whirls and the streets were covered
with a soft, slushy carpet of snow. He was interested, as usual, in
spite of his gloom, in the picture of beauty the world presented--the
city wrapped in a handsome mantle of white. Here were cars rumbling,
people hunched in great coats facing the driving wind. He liked the
snow, the flakes, this wonder of material living. It eased his mind of
his misery and made him think of painting again. Mrs. Johns was on the
seventh floor. Eugene knocked and was admitted by a maid. He was shown
to a waiting room, for he was a little ahead of his time, and there were
others--healthy-looking men and women, who did not appear to have an
ache or pain--ahead of him. Was not this a sign, he thought as he sat
down, that this was something which dealt with imaginary ills? Then why
had the man he had heard in the church beside him testified so forcibly
and sincerely to his healing? Well, he would wait and see. He did not
see what it could do for him now. He had to work. He sat there in one
corner, his hands folded and braced u